Of A Necessity
by scrub456
Summary: Sherlock forces John to try something new. John isn't impressed. Sherlock learns something new about his best friend. Oh, and they catch a criminal. *dialogue in italics indicates characters speaking English. NOT BRIT PICKED*


"So. Come here often do you?"

Sherlock hummed noncommittally, refusing to look up from his mobile.

"I'm not guessing. I'm _observing._ And what I observe is that that young lady seems to recognize you, and she hasn't asked you any questions. Whereas this young lady has asked nearly my entire life history, my blood type, and what I intend to name my future children."

"Don't be so dramatic. It's for a _case,_ John. Just relax." Shoving his mobile into his pocket, Sherlock pressed a button on the armrest of his chair, steepled his fingers under his chin, and settled into deduction mode.

"It would be decidedly easier to relax if I were to, say, know _any_ of the details of the case." John snarked. "Or, at the very least, if it were explained to me why it is of a necessity that we're speaking in Pashto. These young ladies barely speak English."

"They speak Vietnamese, and though English as a spoken language is notably not a strength, both ladies _understand_ English rather well. If we're to discuss case details, it is of the utmost importance that we not be overheard. Hence, Pashto. It's a language you know well enough, many thanks to Her Majesty, though your verb conjugation is a travesty. I took it upon myself to learn it so that you and I could communicate in just such a situation." The explanation was matter-of-fact, and Sherlock never looked away from the clearly fascinating opposite wall.

John chuckled. "Of course you did." He huffed a true laugh then. "Oh God, can you imagine, us at a crime scene, speaking Pashto. Donovan would have a coronary." He followed Sherlock's example and pressed a button on the armrest of his own chair. With a sigh he settled back into the surprisingly comfortable chair and watched Sherlock for a response.

A small, devious smirk was the only indication given that Sherlock was even halfway paying attention to his friend. Though in truth, the thought had crossed his mind a thousand times. He had reasoned perhaps John would find the prank inappropriate, but since the doctor himself had verbalized the idea, well... Now they could really have some fun.

The detective's imagination was intruded upon when his blogger spoke once more. "Will you explain one more thing to me?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Just don't be dull with it."

Clearing his throat and shifting uncomfortably, John studied Sherlock's face in profile. "You've been here before."

"Yes."

"Often?"

"Enough."

"They know what you prefer without asking."

"Indeed. Dull."

"Right." John inhaled deeply and licked his lips ever so slightly. "I suppose I'm just confused. You aren't one to normally indulge in such... public extravagance. Why pay for something so easily accomplished for free? In the privacy of your own home?"

"I told you not to worry, Mycroft's treating."

"But, still..."

"We are men, not beasts, John."

"But... _pedicures?_ Isn't that a bit..."

"Do join the twenty-first century, John. No one will think less of you for tending to personal hygiene."

"Oi! You take issue with my hygiene?" John huffed and crossed his arms over his chest in offense.

Another roll of the eyes and Sherlock waved him off. "Don't be ridiculous. Your personal hygiene is impeccable, if a bit obsessive. I suppose we have both your military and medical training to thank for that. I, on the other hand, cannot be expected to waste precious space in the mind palace on such mundane trivialities."

"Oh, of course." John retorted derisively. "You have, what? A standing appointment? To pay someone to do something so simple that you can't be bothered to remember to do it for yourself?"

"Yes." Sherlock shrugged, perplexed by John's aversion to the concept. "Unless you're offering to do it for me, doctor."

John's face contorted with horror. "Oh God. _No._ "

"Now you see the necessity of a pedicure. I have the bill sent to Mycroft, so technically, I'm not paying." Sherlock adjusted the setting on the heated massage chair and settled in once more. "Besides, I rather like the scent of the moisturizing lotion."

John snorted a surprised laugh and shook his head in disbelief. He left his friend to his deductions and idly turned his attention to the young lady poking and prodding his feet. None of her actions made any real sense to him, though he faintly recalled a former colleague nattering on about... what was it? Reflexology? He'd have to look into that.

Without warning, John tensed.

Sherlock noticed the change in his friend's demeanor immediately, and studied him intently in his peripheral vision. _White knuckled grip on the armrest. Red faced. Hitch in his breathing. Eyes tight shut. Biting his lower lip. Distress... No, this is something else._

"John?"

"Leave it be, Sherlock." John's voice was strained.

"John, it's not unusual for intimate attention to one's feet to trigger a physiological response. You needn't be embarrassed if you're experiencing arou..."

"Would you shut up?" John snapped. "It's not that. God." He choked the words out and turned his face away.

The young lady massaging lotion into John's foot smiled knowingly. _"Ticklish?"_

With his head still turned away, John mumbled an unintelligible answer.

Sherlock, interest peaked, sat upright in his chair and turned to face his friend. Ticklish? This was new information. "English, John."

John turned to look at Sherlock with a grimace. _"Yeah. Uhm, yes. My feet..."_ Another full body spasm and a strangled sound from the depth of John's throat. _"Ever since I was a kid. Only ticklish spot on my body."_ He glared at Sherlock and hissed in Pashto, "Don't. Don't even think about it."

Cocking an eyebrow at his friend, Sherlock feigned innocence. "What?"

"No. You're not running experiments on the sensitivity of my feet." John narrowed his eyes and leveled a glare at Sherlock. "Promise me."

"Ah, you know as well as I do I'll be making no such guarantee." Sherlock grinned, smug with the delight of new possibilities, new data to file away in the rapidly expanding corner of the mind palace dedicated to one John Hamish Watson.

John grunted and immediately had to stifle a giggle. "Oh God," he gasped. "Does it take much longer? This..." He couldn't restrain the giggle this time, though he looked thoroughly miserable. "This is absolute torture." Uncomfortable, the doctor shifted in his chair.

"Let's hope the next villain who takes you captive doesn't figure out your weakness," Sherlock deadpanned. John gave him a hard sidelong look. And then he giggled. Sherlock huffed a laugh. "Almost done, John."

"Good." The two sat in relative silence as patrons and salon employees chatted all around them. John occasionally snickered and struggled to keep a straight face. Sherlock stared straight ahead and pretended not to be amused by John's failed attempt at stoicism. The corner of his mouth quirked slightly upward each time his friend unsuccessfully choked back a laugh.

 _"All done!"_ With a pat on his foot, the young lady who had been working on John's feet smiled up at him. _"Unless..."_ She wiggled a bottle of clear nail polish at him.

 _"Ah, no. No thank you. This was plenty. Thanks."_ John flashed his most charming smile at her, eliciting a slight blush.

"Dear Lord, you just can't help yourself, can you?" Sherlock murmured, still in Pashto. He cleared his throat. "You should get the clear coat. An added layer of protection."

"I invaded Afghanistan without having my toes polished. I think I'll survive London just fine." John pulled his socks on and laced up his shoes quickly.

"Suit yourself," Sherlock shrugged as flimsy foam flip-flops were placed on his feet and foam separaters were shoved between his toes.

John snapped a picture with his mobile. "Insurance," he explained with a cheeky grin. "You mention the ticklish feet, I send this photo. To. Everyone." Sherlock crossed his arms with a huff, and pouted until his toe nails were sufficiently lacquered.

Sherlock was just shuffling over to sit and wait for his toes to dry (John was unsuccessfully attempting to differentiate the subtleties of 47 different shades of pink on the rack of nail polish) when a man of medium stature and build, clearly of Italian descent, wearing a very expensive suit stepped into the salon.

"John!" Sherlock stage whispered, "that's him! Our suspect."

By the time John realized what Sherlock said - still in Pashto - the consulting detective had stepped up to confront the criminal. With a single glance, the man in the suit turned and dashed through the front door. Sherlock was close behind.

"Sherlock! Your..."

"No time, John! COME ON!"

With a sigh John ran after them, and easily enough overtook Sherlock in his pursuit.

"Right! Turn right at the next alley, John!" Sherlock called after his friend.

Picking up his pace, John skidded around the corner and ran directly into the suspect. The alley was a dead end; the criminal was attempting to double back in order to escape. The man in the suit fumbled for his gun, which John easily relieved him of.

Pointing the hand gun at the criminal, John began barking orders. "Off with the tie and belt."

"English, John." Sherlock eventually caught up, though he shuffled along. "I texted Lestrade, he is near."

"Right. Good." John nodded quickly and turned his attention back to the suspect. _"Belt and tie. Off. Toss 'em over. Hurry."_ The criminal complied, clearly shaken. John handed Sherlock the gun and bound the criminal's hands with the tie. He very persuasively _encouraged_ the man to sit on the ground so he could bind his feet with the belt.

Detective Inspector Lestrade arrived a few moments later with Sergeant Sally Donovan in tow. Additional officers soon arrived as well.

 _"Are all these people really necessary? How many officers do you require to do your job, Gavin?"_ Sherlock condescended.

 _"Ordinarily, no,"_ Lestrade snapped, and then turned to John. _"You have to understand... We NEVER know what we're going to find when you two are involved."_

John chuckled good naturedly. _"Well that's the truth."_

 _"We've been after this guy for weeks now. How did you find him?"_ Lestrade looked from John to Sherlock expectantly.

 _"When he appeared on your 'Most Wanted' list, I recognized him as a patron of an establishment..."_ Sherlock's explanation was cut short by a rather unladylike, very unprofessional squeal.

 _"Oh God! Look at the freak's feet! Were you getting a pedicure? Is that nail polish? Oh my God! Wait until Anderson sees this!"_ A crowd of officers gathered around as Donovan announced her observation. She snapped a few photos. For evidence, of course.

Sherlock, John and Lestrade all looked down at the consulting detective's feet at the same time. Trousers rolled up to his knees, flimsy pink foam flip-flops, purple foam toe separaters, and toe nails glistening after a fresh application of clear polish. There was no denying it. A pedicure had been done.

"I tried to warn you," John shook his head in sympathy.

"There was no time, John." Sherlock huffed in annoyance. "Donovan's opinion of me could not matter any less."

"Whatever you say. Most of us ordinary people would feel some sort of embarrassment."

 _"Oi! English, you two! We hardly know what you're up to most of the time anyway. This..."_ Lestrade waved his hand between John and Sherlock in exasperation. _"It's just not on, yeah?"_

The consulting detective and his blogger shared a knowing looking. Sherlock smirked derisively, and John snickered. Lestrade rolled his eyes with a huff. _"Well? Are you going to explain?"_

 _"What's to explain? WE were getting pedicures,"_ John was interrupted by laughter and insulting comments from the surrounding officers. With only a slight blush staining his cheeks, he continued. _"The suspect came into the salon, we chased him, I subdued him, and here we are. That's my official statement. We're done here now, yeah?"_ He looked to Sherlock.

 _"That's the whole of it. Always a pleasure doing your job for you, Gavin. If you have any questions, you know how to reach me."_ Sherlock had assumed his most indifferent, detached expression. He spun on his heel, and with a dramatic swish of his coattails, stumbled over the clumsy foam flip-flops.

 _"Come along, John."_ Sherlock stood tall, shoulders squared, and glared at anyone who dared to make eye contact. John shrugged, wide eyed, at Lestrade and hurried after his friend who marched purposefully from the alley. No sooner had they turned the corner than the officers burst into raucous laughter.

"Imbeciles." Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"You have to admit, it is kind of funny. You in those ridiculous things." John motioned to Sherlock's feet. "It's no wonder I out ran you. First time ever!"

"Oh, don't be smug. I was clearly at a disadvantage. And I fail to see the humor in personal hygiene."

John laughed outright at that. "Personal hygiene," he mimicked. Sherlock allowed his mouth to quirk up into a slight smile. "So what now? We caught the bad guy, what's on for the rest of the day?"

"Obvious." Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at his friend. "We've appointments for manicures next."


End file.
